“You were mad. I didn’t want to talk to you mad.”

“How do you know I was?”

“I could see it in your face and the way you walked. You’re not mad now.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Do you want to take my books?” She smiled.

A warmth fell on him. “Yes—yes, I do.” He put her schoolbooks under his arm and walked beside her. “Lee wants to see you. He asked me to tell you.”

She was pleased. “Does he? Tell him I’ll come. How’s your father?”

“Not very well. His eyes bother him.”

They walked along in silence until Cal couldn’t stand it any more. “You know about Aron?”

“Yes.” She paused. “Open my binder and look next to the first page.”

He shifted the books. A penny postcard was in the binder. “Dear Abra,” it said. “I don’t feel clean. I’m not fit for you. Don’t be sorry. I’m in the army. Don’t go near my father. Good-by, Aron.”

Cal snapped the book shut. “The son of a bitch,” he said under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I heard what you said.”

“Do you know why he went away?”

“No. I guess I could figure out—put two and two together. I don’t want to. I’m not ready to—that is, unless you want to tell me.”

Suddenly Cal said, “Abra—do you hate me?”

“No, Cal, but you hate me a little. Why is that?”

“I—I’m afraid of you.”

“No need to be.”

“I’ve hurt you more than you know. And you’re my brother’s girl.”

“How have you hurt me? And I’m not your brother’s girl.”

“All right,” he said bitterly, “I’ll tell you—and I don’t want you to forget you asked me to. Our mother was a whore. She ran a house here in town. I found out about it a long time ago. Thanksgiving night I took Aron down and showed her to him. I—”

Abra broke in excitedly, “What did he do?”

“He went mad—just crazy. He yelled at her. Outside he knocked me down and ran away. Our dear mother killed herself; my father—he’s—there’s something wrong with him. Now you know about me. Now you have some reason to walk away from me.”

“Now I know about him,” she said calmly.

“My brother?”

“Yes, your brother.”

“He was good. Why did I say was? He is good. He’s not mean or dirty like me.”

They had been walking very slowly. Abra stopped and Cal stopped and she faced him.

“Cal,” she said, “I’ve known about your mother for a long, long time.”

“You have?”

“I heard my parents talking when they thought I was asleep. I want to tell you something, and it’s hard to tell and it’s good to tell.”

“You want to?”

“I have to. It’s not so terribly long ago that I grew up and I wasn’t a little girl any more. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” said Cal.

“You sure you know?”

“Yes.”

“All right then. It’s hard to say now. I wish I’d said it then. I didn’t love Aron any more.”